


Harvesmere Again

by NorroenDyrd



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Dragon Age Quest: In Hushed Whispers, Gen, Inquisitor & Dorian Pavus Friendship, Pastoral, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-20
Updated: 2018-09-20
Packaged: 2019-07-14 17:58:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16045634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NorroenDyrd/pseuds/NorroenDyrd
Summary: In the month of Harvestmere, 9:42 Dragon, at the time when, in the horrific alternate future, Corypheus would have prevailed and Thedas would have burned, the Inquisitor and Dorian enjoy a little picnic, looking on at the cozy peaceful life of the world they have managed to save.





	Harvesmere Again

It is Harvestmere, 9:42 Dragon. There is still green grass swaying on top of the rolling hills in the Hinterlands, fuzzy and rounded like the arched backs of so many stretching gigantic cats, drowsy in the last warm rays of the ever more pale sun. But even as the green yet ripples in the breeze like glossy fur, many of the trees have already turned yellow and orange - a fluttering kaleidoscope of little vibrant circles that may have once inspired the golden mosaics in the ancient elven ruins, which, like the hills, bask in quiet sleep in the embrace of gigantic, mossy tree roots that hold up their crumbling walls, sunshine streaming in through the holes in the ceiling in broad stripes, speckled by silvery motes of dust.  
  
In the human villages that nestle at the foot of those hills, and on the fringe of the golden forests that guard the wistful stillness of the abandoned elven halls, there is less of that drowsiness that seems to swathe the surrounding nature. The month of Harvestmere was not given its name on a whim, and there are barns to be filled, livestock to be rounded up, berry preserves and salted vegetables to be sealed and stored away before the gold and green fade to shrivelled brown and to leaden grey, and then vanish underneath the blinding, sparkling white of winter.  
  
The streets - or, in many cases, thread-thin dirt paths habitually referred to with this word, a remnant from a time when these sun-kissed farmlands were spanned by the lofty, statue-guarded highways of the Tevinter Imperium, each of them known as ‘via strata’ - are alive with the rush of a motley crowd.  
  
Potbellied, ruddy-cheeked men with grimy shirt sleeves that have been rolled up to reveal massive hairy arms, striding to work with a scythe over the shoulder, or hauling off baskets of vegetables and flour sacks, blotchy ovals of sweat under their arm pits, sometimes assisted by barefoot, twig-legged elven farm hands.  
  
Women in tucked-up aprons, hair tied back and pulled under head scarves with a knot under the chin, hoisting brittle, fragrant hay onto pitchforks because it needs to be put away before the grey veil of the next month’s rains falls over the meadows.  
  
Children and teenagers, scabby-kneed, with hair bleached by the glare of the long summer days into tufts of wispy white, gathering about to wash and slice up the chubby forest boletes before their mothers dry them up, dangling their legs and whispering in excited voices about the latest feat of the Inquisition. One girl, a gap-toothed shepherd’s apprentice, sticks out her leg to show off what she claims to be a scar from a time when ‘a huuuuuge black wolf, with eyes green like fire bugs’ tried to carry her off, but then 'a real, honest to goodness oxman, scary but kind, with an eyepatch like a pirate from Sister Patience’s picture book’ lopped its head off with an axe.  
  
It is Harvestmere, 9:42 Dragon. Life flows and bubbles like a playful glimmering stream through the Fereldan countryside. There still are charred blemishes here and there among the hills - carcasses of buildings that were gobbled up by the hungry, smoking jaws of green flame back when the cloudy green scar zigzagging across the clear blue sky was still a spinning vortex that spat out demons. There still is smoke gushing from the chimney of the elven healer’s cottage, as she heats up the water to brew heady herbal mixtures to treat the victims of rogue Templar raids. There still are villagers, children and adults alike, who wake up with their throats scraped raw by a scream they do not remember uttering, ice-cold sweaty sheets twisted around them in a strangling cord, and take a while to realize that the fiery demonic claws and the insane, lopsided leers of blood mage cultists were just part of a bad dream. But still. It could have been worse. It could have been so much worse.  
  
It is Harvestmere, 9:42 Dragon. And when the calendar page is flipped, and this month of golden leaves and last stretches of farm work officially begins, the Inquisitor invites Dorian Pavus to a picnic.  
  
The Tevinter quirks an eyebrow, and makes an offhand joke about 'simple southern food’ and 'pine needles getting where they don’t belong’ - but still agrees to come. The Inquisitor chooses a spot on a flat rocky outcrop that has a view over one of the many lake valleys of the Hinterlands, the autumnal forest shining on the horizon like a jewelled cloud, its reflection turning the distant strip of water into molten metal.  
  
The air is crisp and has a curious, apple-like fragrance to it. A few long draughts, like fruity wine - and Dorian feels a soft flush appear on his cheeks. The rather strenuous walk from the nearest Inquisition outpost has also left him quite famished, and as he cautiously lowers himself in the middle of a warm patch of sunlight that sprawls across the grey rock, and stretches his legs (which sends a rather pleasant him through his bones), he concedes that he might 'enjoy these rustic treats after all’.  
  
The Inquisitor chuckles, and then turns away to gaze out into the valley. Dorian follows suit - and as he lazily takes in the green cat backs of the hills, and the intricate mosaic of the woods, it begins to dawn on him why he has been brought here.  
  
It is Harvestmere, 9:42 Dragon. The date to which they were thrown by time magic - it’s today. And this time around, the landscape actually looks the part.  
  
The sun - which is still here, as it should be, about to retire for the winter after doing its job to ripen the harvest; not sucked into the engorged, slimy belly of the Breach; not drowned out by the murky blood-red aura of corrupted lyrium crystals tall as buildings - traces its soft brush strokes over the Inquisitor’s figure and smiling face, which is tilted back towards Dorian again.  
  
'Thank you,’ the Inquisitor says, simply. 'If it were not for you…’  
  
'You are not too incompetent yourself, my friend,’ Dorian replies, and reaches for the food.  
  
It is Harvestmere, 9:42 Dragon. Again. The future that the two of them pulled from the brink has finally arrived. And while it is not perfect, while they still have so much to do and so many people to save, it is infinitely better than what might have been.


End file.
